That morning, just yesterday, and thanks to a Facebook friend in Marseille, I came upon the publication of the wonderful poem by Pushkin, known to English readers as “To A Poet,” but here, translated magnificently into French by Flaubert. The Romantic feel was to me particularly inspiring, and I shared it gratefully with a couple of Facebook friends who speak French.
Just after lunch, walking alone, I turned the corner near the restaurant ‘Chartier’ and met the eye of a young man struggling to ask for directions. He only spoke English, and was looking for a subway station five minute’s walk from where we were. The “Bourse” stop is in my old neighborhood in the late 70s, and was in the direction I was headed, so finally I offered to lead the young man to his destination.
I learned he had just arrived for his first adventure in Europe, had left his work in sheet metal and construction near Chicago, and was not sure yet whether to pick up his Philosophy studies where he had left off, or to seek a new life motorcycling around Wyoming and Alaska. He writes poetry. When you’re 23 and strong, I guess the options are wide open…
When we arrived at the métro station, to my complete stupefaction, he said, “Would you like to come with me to Père Lachaise and see Jim Morrison’s grave?”
I hadn’t been there for years, and I was free for the afternoon.
“OK,” I said, and we were off.
Turns out young Trevor loves to read Rimbaud (in English), and knows Morrison’s last album by heart. And of course knows all about the tragic but mysteriously troubling death in Paris of the rock hero.
Trevor paid his respects, and in doing so left a page torn from his journal, under a small stone placed on the grave. Despite the metal barriers, it’s easy for an agile youth to skim over and back in seconds from the closed-off area. He touched the tomb in communion with a Legend.
It was now almost four in the afternoon, and I found out he hadn’t eaten all day. At the entrance of the cemetery there is a friendly brasserie which serves nonstop. I recommended something typical from here, so he had a fresh green salad made with smoked duck breast, tender potted duck gizzards, some lightly pan-browned potatoes, and foie gras on toast. The joyous picture here is Trevor tasting delicate foie gras for the first time.
We talked about everything at that table, and finished off lots of draught beer. Legends, Greek mythology, philosophy… It’s always amazing to me how someone intelligent can ask intelligent questions, and the conversation just rolled. I told of my travels extending from Asia to South America. I talked about the important mentors in my life, and how I met my patroness. And about learning languages.
He thought I was incredibly lucky. Of course I pointed out the worth of trying to finish off his college degrees, a Masters at least in Philosophy if that’s what he likes; for that’s just one of the subjects I wish I had had time to study. But I think my perspective was appreciated, and the sense of being valued was greatly appreciated. From my phone, I read him my recent memoir about Noël Lee. Let’s say that that explains why the lunch was on me.
After these unexpectedly magical hours spent together, the young poet was on his way back to the Airport to pick up his lost backpack, which had been recovered. The itinerary made it convenient for us to come back by the neighborhood in the center where I live, before catching the RER train. So as a cumulative moment, Jacques arrived too, and we took the youth to the top of the Georges Pompidou Center for the tremendous view of the skyline of Paris, on one of the sunniest and most optimistic days you could imagine. For me, the story ends here. For Trevor, a world has opened wide the doors to infinite possibilities. I’m sending him an email now, with the Pushkin poem “To A Poet,” and to wish him well on the next stop, after an overnight bus trip to Quimper.